Return to Jalna. Mazo de la Roche

your little girl,” said Mr. Clapperton to Alayne, “is she better?”

      “Thank you, she has quite recovered. She is a very strong child.”

      Nicholas heaved himself in his chair, so that he faced Mr. Clapperton. “Now I want to know,” he said, “why you should choose to live in the country. You strike me as a man absolutely of the town.”

      “Not at all, sir,” Mr. Clapperton spoke a little huffily. “I’ve always had the ambition to end my days on a country estate where I could play at being farmer.”

      “Life in the country isn’t what it used to be, you know. Help question’s terrible.”

      Mr. Clapperton smiled. “I plan to use modern business methods. Everything up to date. Wages to tempt the most experienced men. Oh, I have many plans!” He gave a silent chuckle. “I’ll surprise you by what I’ll do.”

      “My father,” said Ernest, “used to employ twenty men at Jalna. Farmhands, gardeners; we had our own carpenter’s shop — our own smithy.”

      “And cheap labour, I’ll bet,” returned Mr. Clapperton. “Those were the days!”

      “Certainly,” said Meg, “we now have to scrabble along as best we can. I’m thankful to see Vaughanlands in the hands of someone who has the money to run it properly. I’ve had enough of making shift.”

      There was a silence in which Nicholas noisily supped his tea. Mr. Clapperton gave him a quick look, then turned to Maurice. “So you are the young gentleman my secretary is teaching.”

      “Well, he’s trying to, sir. I’m afraid he finds it pretty heavy going at times.”

      Pupil and tutor exchanged smiles. “This lad,” said Swift, “has been mentally submerged by the classics. I’m doing what I can to bring him to the surface.”

      “And a mighty unpleasant surface it is,” said Finch gloomily.

      “Just wait till we get the rubbish cleared away.”

      “Meaning our kind,” said Nicholas, putting a small muffin whole into his mouth.

      “Oh, no, Mr. Whiteoak. I mean the accumulation of outworn tradition.”

      “Description answers perfectly,” growled Nicholas, through the muffin.

      “People like you,” put in Mr. Clapperton, “have been the backbone of this country.”

      “Very handsome of you to say so.”

      “Development and change are necessary,” said Ernest, “and I always like to feel myself in the forefront of such.”

      “Good man!” said his brother.

      Meg now brought the conversation to personal affairs, from where it led quite naturally to the financial difficulties of the church. Mr. Clapperton was sympathetic but showed no disposition to offer financial aid. Before he left he expressed a wish to see the other rooms on the ground floor. A group progressed into the library and dining room. Mr. Clapperton might have been a connoisseur of old furniture, to judge by the profound expression with which he stood before each piece. But the truth was he knew little and gave his rapt attention to things of no value, such as the ugly and ornate whatnot which stood in a corner of the library, its shelves covered by photographs, papier mâché boxes and Victorian china ornaments. But, when in the dining room, he stood before the portraits of Captain Philip Whiteoak and his wife, Adeline, his enthusiasm increased, if that were possible.

      “There,” he exclaimed, “is what I call a perfect example of a gallant English officer!”

      Captain Whiteoak, blond and bold in his Hussar’s uniform, looked unconcernedly over their heads.

      Meg said, “My brother Piers, the one who is a prisoner in Germany, is the image of Grandpapa.”

      “And you should see my little boy, Philip!” cried Pheasant. “The likeness is remarkable.”

      “As an officer,” said Nicholas, “my father was overbearing to his inferiors, insubordinate toward his superiors and was never so happy as when he got out of the army.”

      “And what a striking woman your mother was!” exclaimed Mr. Clapperton, rapt before the other portrait.

      “Right you are,” agreed Nicholas. “She’d hit any one of us over the head as lief as look at us.”

      When the guests had gone, Meg asked, “Now what do you think of my Mr. Clapperton?”

      “I think,” said Nicholas, “that he’s a horrid old fellow.”

      “Do you indeed? Then what is your feeling about that good-looking secretary of his?”

      “I think,” returned Nicholas, filling his pipe, “that he’s a horrid young fellow.”

VII THE WANING OF THE YEAR

      ALAYNE HAD MET with much criticism from Meg and the uncles because of her dismissal of Wright. He had been at Jalna for more than twenty years. He had been Renny’s right-hand man in the care of the horses. He had ridden beside him in many a show. He could be depended on. To be sure he was no farmer, nor did he pretend to be. To grow sufficient hay and oats for the horses satisfied him. Where the stables were concerned he was extravagant and nothing could change him. Alayne had had little to do with him before the war. Since Renny’s departure there had been a constant tug-of-war between them. He was, in her opinion, demanding, headstrong and inflexible; she, in his, close-fisted and interfering. Now they stood facing each other. She had in her hand a cheque for the amount of his wages.

      “You know what I think, ma’am,” he said. “I was hired by Colonel Whiteoak and I don’t feel like taking notice from anyone but him. In fact, I ain’t going to.”

      Alayne felt her anger rising. “This is ridiculous, Wright,” she said, “and you know it is. I am in complete authority here. I have given you notice. Now I intend to pay you your wages. So let us have no more arguing about it.”

      He thrust his hands behind his back. “Listen here, ma’am. The farmhand has given me notice. What are you going to do when he’s left?”

      “Given you notice!” she exclaimed. “If he wishes to give notice let him give it to me.”

      “He’ll do that fast enough. He wants to leave at the end of a fortnight.”

      “Well, let him leave. There are others. In fact, we can get along quite well with one good man at this time of year.”

      Wright smiled grimly. “Perhaps you can find one,” he said.

      Alayne proffered him the cheque, but he kept his hands behind his back.

      “Please take this,” she said sharply, her colour rising.

      “No, Mrs. Whiteoak, I ain’t going.”

      “Do you like the idea of staying on without wages?” she asked.

      “No. I don’t, but I’ll do it sooner than let the boss down.”

      “Your flat over the garage will be needed for the new man.”

      “You can’t put me out of there for three months, ma’am.”

      “Then he can live in the cottage. You are doing yourself no good, Wright, by behaving like this.”

      “I ain’t out to do myself good, ma’am.”

      Alayne turned sharply away and left him.

      Finch was her comfort in these days. Now he went to the town and at the office of the Selective Service interviewed several men. He engaged one who had been discharged from the army, and he was installed in the one cottage which remained of those built for farmhands in the early